


Shots

by LogicalBookThief



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: And Making Up With Your Brother, As Is Friendship, Blood, Brotherly feels, Dipper Needs Hugs, Everyone Pretty Much Does, Fever, Fever Dreams, Flashbacks, Gen, Guilt, Gun Violence, Gunshot Wounds, Hugs Are the Best Medicine, Hurt/Comfort, Infection, Mabel too, Past Drug Use, Past Violence, Specifically of Stan's Colombian Nights, Stan Needs Hugs, Stangst, bad memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 10:30:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5925193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicalBookThief/pseuds/LogicalBookThief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A "Not What He Seems" AU, where Stan doesn’t escape government custody unscathed, and his reunion with Ford goes a bit differently as a result.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just My Luck

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posting this fic from my tumblr! An idea that started from saisai-chan (http://saisai-chan.tumblr.com/) about Stan being grievously injured at the onset of "A Tale of Two Stans" (read more on that here if you want: http://saisai-chan.tumblr.com/post/135540054979/oh-my-god-your-au-is-on-the-top-of-the-list-of) that quickly spiraled out of control. 
> 
> Anyway. Let the stangst commence!

The sirens blare into the distance as the government vehicles speed away on the wild goose chase they’ve been fed like a tail of breadcrumbs. Too busy following his fake getaway car to notice the splatters of blood leading in the opposite direction, towards the escaped suspect they planned to apprehend.

Thankfully, they were that easily led astray, because _frankly_ , they wouldn’t have received much of a fight had they caught him in his present state…

Stan leaned against the wall of a nearby building for support, wincing and inhaling through his nose, suppressing sharp bursts of pain-laced groans trying to escape his dry lips. He clenched his eyes shut, counting backwards from twenty, not wanting to look at the damage but knowing that he must.

_Calm down. Don’t panic. Panicking did not save your ass in Montana and it won’t save you now._

Pulling himself together, he glanced at the wound with a grimace. The bullet had went through, at least. Hadn’t hit anything vital, either, so far as he could tell. Sure was bleeding a lot, though. And _damn_ did it smart!

“Wonder who the lucky bastard was,” he grumbled, referring to whoever had shot him. He stripped a piece of his shirt away, and, thinking better of it, tore a piece of cloth from his pants, too.

Couldn’t have been that senior agent or else Stan would be dead by now. He knew enough about law enforcement to know that men like that don’t miss. No. Probably a rookie taking his shot, following orders, without really considering the consequences.

Most rookies were after the thrill. Not the kill.

He wrapped the wound once, _twice_ for good measure, tying the cloth as tightly as he could. _There_. Wasn’t the first wound he’d had to dress by his lonesome, with limited materials and no time to waste. Speaking of which, Stan had to get going. Had to reach the Shack before the clock ran out. Had to be there when it happened.

Bullet or no bullet. Pain or no pain.

This time he _wouldn’t_ be too late.

* * *

When the clock had finally run out, the earth had collapsed beneath their feet, twisted and shaken, as it did on those carnival rides that he remembered from his childhood along the coast of the Jersey Shore. For a few blinding seconds, with the wind forcing your eyes shut and lifting you towards the sky, you felt weightless and free. Until the ride stopped and you were back on the ground, stranded by gravity.

As this high-stakes tilt-a-whirl came crashing to a halt, Stan had fallen to the floor, Soos and the kids scattered on either end of him; nonetheless, his high hadn’t quite faded, the thick stream of adrenaline pumping through his veins yet, preventing him from feeling the full extent of his jostling. He grasped his head, hand trembling, somehow able to answer Dipper’s startled question before the full weight of the situation landed on him, and he realized that the figure standing before him wasn’t merely the Author, it was his long lost brother.

His _brother,_ Stanford.

He swayed as he got to his feet, smiling so hard he thought his cheeks might burst at the seams. He felt so incredibly elated, so fulfilled. So overjoyed to see his sibling again that the euphoria alone must be keeping him blissfully numb, far away from every physical injury he’d accumulated over the past couple of hours.

 _“Finally… After all these long years of waiting, you’re actually here!”_ He choked a little on his words, almost too overcome to speak.  _“Brother!”_

He opened his arms wide, waiting. Initiating a reconciliation that should’ve occurred _long_ already, but whatever, who _cared?_ His brother was alive and here and Stan _might_ be dying, but oh well, what did that matter, when Ford was finally, at long last, back hom-

The punch came as a cruel shock to the system. Worse than the bullet that had pierced him.

Stan stumbled backwards, scarcely managing to stay upright. His entire body recoiled at the unjust assault, and his cheek bone ached, much like the back of his head was beginning to throb. With the adrenaline wearing off, the pain of everything would start to bleed through.

 _“Ow_ …what the heck was that for?!” he mumbled, stunned, and undeniably _hurt_ by the lukewarm welcome. He could feel the anger behind that fist, the decades of pent-up resentment bursting behind the pressure of six hard knuckles.

“This was an insanely risky move, restarting the portal! Didn’t you read my warnings?!” Ford’s tone was cold, lacking any affection or warmth. Stan retorted with characteristic snark, trying to cover his disappointment. But his brother’s face hardened when he asked for a simple _“thanks”_ and it was insane that Ford had only just returned but here he was, already lecturing Stan, already raising his voice as if to yell, _“Thank you?_ You really think I’m gonna thank you after…”

Ford trailed off, and at first Stan wondered why Mr. Self-Righteous had suddenly seen fit to end his rant early, when he realized that there was a noise bubbling from his mouth. How had he failed to notice?

But between the rapidly growing dizziness and the influx of sensation beginning to creep past the numbness that had sustained him this long, Stan was hard-pressed to say exactly why there was _laughter,_ of all things, tearing through his throat.

Stan chuckled, the self-deprecating sound echoing through the basement he’d spent countless nights, thirty years worth of nights, tinkering and toiling and taking blow after blow, failure after failure.

What was one more blow to the face, then, delivered by the brother he’d been so desperate to retrieve? What did it matter, in the end, that the greatest achievement of Stan’s life merely earned him a sore jaw and an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach?

He kept laughing, some wires within his neural transmitters clearly crossed, because he certainly didn’t feel like laughing. He felt more like crying.

_After everything that’s led to this point, he isn’t happy to see you. Still doesn’t want you. But what did you honestly expect?_

Stan frowned, seized abruptly by a cold wave of exhaustion, and something that was probably melancholy. He would have moved mountains just to reach this moment, had practically done so by reactivating this godforsaken portal, yet things _still_ hadn’t turned out right. Ford was mad at him. Hated him, by the sound of it. Didn’t care enough to greet him properly after thirty years or ask how _he_ was, same as before…

Which didn’t make his goal any less fulfilled, only…sadder, he supposed. Not pointless, _no,_ because Stan had wanted Ford back more than anything. Not only for Stan, but for Ford, who didn’t deserve to suffer anymore for Stan’s mistakes, Stan’s accidents ( _and maybe he would no longer have to_ ).

It was just…

Part of him had never stopped clinging to the hope of the warm reunion he’d been robbed of last time. Now the part of him that was always warning against such high expectations, telling him that he shouldn’t bother with hope when he always got hurt in the end, didn’t even sound victorious. Instead, it seemed to sigh with pity.

_Oh, you poor fool. When will you ever wise up and get a clue?_

Not fond of being condescended, even by his own self, Stan straightened his spine, which had yet to un-hunch from its defensive position. The slight shift was like a match scraping against a rock, and as his body shifted just a certain way, barely moving at all, a sudden lash pain _exploded_ , spreading like wildfire

He hissed, instinctively groping at his side, the wound burning beneath his touch. Wetness seeped onto his fingers, through the fabric, and slowly Stan pulled his hand away, blank eyes regarding the sheen of crimson coating his palm with a dazed sort of disassociation.

And then he started to laugh again, quiet and subdued, knees buckling, suddenly understanding the dark, morbid humor. Because it _was_ really funny, when you thought about it.

Stan Pines. The biggest joke of ‘em all.


	2. Out of Touch

The first thing Stanford Pines saw after stepping out of the portal was his brother, thirty years older and obviously the orchestrator of the entire scene, and he was most assuredly _not_ pleased.

His brother’s apparent nonchalance (the way he greeted him so familiarly, as if there _wasn’t_ a sea of transgressions between them) only served to show how shameless he truly was. Ford had always known his brother was irresponsible, but to disobey his direct orders and re-activate the portal was an insanely risky endeavor that he had explicitly advised against in his journal – which Stan had obviously read to get to this point.

Naturally, Stanley dismissed the danger of his actions, which merely irritated Stanford further. He understood the threat to their world that the portal posed, and _worse,_ the chain reaction with which they would now have to deal. Of course, it was true that Stan did not have the information or experience that Ford did, as he hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with details thirty years ago; nevertheless, his warnings _should_ have been enough to steer Stan away from this outcome. But it seemed he’d underestimated his brother’s stubbornness.

For all of Stanley’s flaws, distantly Ford knew that his heart was in the right place and that his obstinacy had led to Ford being able to set foot in his home dimension again. _Still,_ that didn’t excuse his mistakes, and didn’t stop from greeting his brother with a six-fingered jab straight to the face. Not the most mature move, no, but warranted enough that the irrationality could be excused.

Surprisingly, his twin hadn’t even made a move to defend himself, as though he hadn’t seen this reaction coming. Stan took the hit, nearly tumbling backwards at the force of it, his face falling. The joy expressed upon Stanford’s arrival shifted, and was replaced by something else, something Ford couldn’t decipher and didn’t care to. He wasn’t interested so much in understanding Stanley’s motivations than he was making him understand what he’d done wrong.

Halfway through his carefully worded lecture, however, Stanford trailed off when it became evident that his brother wasn’t listening. In fact, Stanley was _laughing._

At first, Ford was filled with an appalled sort of anger. What could Stan possibly find funny about this situation, after all? As the chuckling continued, however, even he couldn’t deny that there was something…distinctly _off._

The sound was bitter and ugly, nothing like how he remembered his brother’s laughter (then again, he wasn't sure when he’d last heard Stanley laugh, genuinely laugh, only that it must’ve been a very long time ago). Hearing this parody was disconcerting, to say the least.

Abruptly, the bout of laughter ended with a hiss torn from Stan, who grasped the side of his abdomen as if seized by a spasm of pain. Ford stopped short, and, observing the destruction around him, wondered if Stan had been injured during the portal’s reactivation. He hadn’t taken notice before, but his brother did look rather banged up.

Stan brought his hand away, and there was blood, far too much to be from a mere cut. Stanford’s eyes widened in alarm that appeared worryingly absent from his brother’s gaze.

Then it happened, so fast yet almost like slow-motion at the same time; Stan’s knees gave out like a tower of blocks swept away by a toddler’s tantrum. Ford watched in muted horror as his brother collapsed, an agonized groan echoing through the room, followed by a shrill cry.

_“Grunkle Stan!”_

Stanford jolted. He hadn’t noticed anyone else in the basement until now. There were two children wearing matching horrified expressions, and another person standing next to them, a man with an uncanny resemblance to a gopher. Stanford paid them no mind. He couldn’t afford to.

He brushed past them, uttering a toneless, “Stay back” to ensure they kept out of the way.

Instincts honed from years beyond the portal incited him to action. He knelt by Stan’s side, maneuvering him onto his back, shoulders elevated slightly by Stanford’s supporting arm. Stanley was unnervingly pliable, almost boneless.

 _Assess the damage._ He found a hastily wrapped bandage soaked with blood. Prying the damp material away, there was the hole, caused by the penetration of a bullet. _Hole._ Someone had shot a _hole_ into his brother.

He shook the thought away, coiling his emotions into a tightly wound ball. He couldn’t think of Stan like his brother right now. He was a patient, a case study, a problem to be solved. If he was too emotionally invested, he might make a mistake. A mistake that could cost them dearly.

 _Staunch the blood flow_.

“Damn it,” Ford cursed, eyes tracing the contour of the wound. He took a piece of cloth, as clean as he could find, from one of the inner pockets of his coat, and pressed against the bullet hole. His brother’s body flinched away from the undoubtedly painful touch, yet Ford held firm.

In the back of his mind, he wished he had a device that could solder the wound shut, the kind that were so easy to come by on other worlds yet lamentably inaccessible in this part of the galaxy. Given the time and material, he could probably construct one from memory. Time seemed to be the thing both him and Stan severely lacked right now, however.

His brother made a noise, a keening sort of wounding animal sound that forced Ford to grit his teeth to keep from apologizing for the pressure he had to exert, and then his eyelids flickered open.

“Stan?” _Pupils dilated. Unfocused. Disoriented_.

When Stanley only continued to stare ahead uncomprehendingly, Ford practically seethed, “Stanley, what happened?”

Eventually, glassy eyes focused on Ford, and once he saw him, Stan’s lips seemed to curl into the ghost of a smile. More laughter poured from his brother, this time quieter, resigned. Ford felt his spine tingle with frustration and concern. “Stanley, _tell me._ I need more information.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Stan rasped, his voice weak yet so full of emotion, although his brother couldn’t accurately describe what exactly. “Got you back. S'all I needed to do. S'okay if I…”

Ford waited for him to finish his sentence, even as his chest clenched uncomfortably at how indifferent his twin was acting towards death, but Stan's fluttering eyelids slipped closed, and he fell silent.

“Eyes _open,”_ Stanford snapped, shaking him. Perhaps too hard, as Stan moaned softly, expression pinched.

“Whaddya w'nt from me?” he slurred, stomach muscles quivering beneath Ford’s hand, “G-Got nothing else…nothing else to…”

Just when he feared Stan would try to doze off again, a worried exclamation, _“Grunkle Stan?!”_ caught both their attentions.

The other occupants of the basement had seen fit to disregard his earlier order to give them space, and Ford might’ve been annoyed had his brother not responded to the summons better than he had to any of Ford’s attempts to rouse him, dark eyes brightening at the call.

 _“Kids,”_ Stan murmured, like a drowning man thirsting for water.

Apparently, that was the cue the trio needed as they approached, forming a loose circle around the brothers. Out of his peripheral vision, Ford saw the girl wringing her hands together as the boy stood aside her, shell-shocked. “Grunkle Stan, how bad are you hurt?” she questioned softly.

Stan’s face went mysteriously blank. Based on the attitude and answers Ford had garnered, he didn’t think his brother had a very optimistic outlook, though it was obvious he would never share this with the girl. He opened his mouth, nonetheless, perhaps to conjure some comforting lie; the words were butchered as Stan coughed, the action sapping away his last reserves of energy, his whole body wracked by violent shivers.

Belatedly, it occurred to Stanford that he had forgotten: _Shock. He’s cold, that’s why he’s shaking. Risk of contracting hypothermia is a real risk at this stage. How could you not account for that?_  

Ripping his arms out of his sleeves, Ford wound the long coat around his brother’s shoulder, applying pressure to the wound all the while. He could sense at least three pairs of eyes watching his movements.

“He’s going to be okay, right?” asked the girl plaintively, re-directing her inquiries to him. “Mr. Author?”

Stanford didn’t answer. He told himself it was because he didn’t want to shift focus for something so inconsequential, but really, it was because he had no idea how to answer without breaking her heart.

“Mr. Pines?” the man started, clearly speaking to Stan, not Ford. “D-Did those police guys…?”

“A-Agents…” Stan managed between coughs, , “…when I…es-escaped…”

“Agents?” Ford repeated, an edge to his voice.

“Oh, no.” The man sucked inhaled sharply, eyes almost comically wide as he pointed towards the control room.  _“Dudes.”_

Following his gaze, Stanford saw on the security screens that the outside of the house was swarming with government agents. He inwardly cursed the invasion, knowing that any discover of the technology in the basement would spell doom for everyone involved. But beneath the rational concern brewed another feeling, this one dark and cold and desperate for gratification.

_They shot my brother._

“What’s gonna happen if they find us?” asked the girl fretfully, yanking on the boy’s arm for an answer. "Dipper?“

"They shot him,” the boy whispered. His tone was intense enough that Ford spared him a glance; the boy trembled where he stood, fists clenched at his side, face obscured. “They said they were the good guys but _they shot him.”_

Attention diverted towards the children, it didn’t even register that the other man was reaching for his brother until a hand entered his field of vision. All Ford could compute was a hand nearing his prone, helpless brother and reacted accordingly. He gripped the wrist before it could make contact, glaring ice cold daggers at the potential perpetrator. The man blanched before holding up his other hand pacifistically.

“My abuelita was a nurse, I can help,” he insisted. Brow furrowed with determination, he added more assertively, “Anything for Mr. Pines.”

Lips pursed, Ford considered for a few seconds before releasing the younger man’s wrist, a silent allowance. mind calculating. If the gopher-like man was as capable as he claimed, and as loyal to Stan as he seemed, then Ford could let him take over so that he could attend to _other_ pressing matters.

“Hold this here,” Stanford ordered, waiting to remove his hand from the bloodied gauze until the other man had taken over. “Press firmly until you’re certain the bleeding’s stopped.”

The man nodded solemnly, and once he was satisfied by his competency, Ford surrendered Stan to him, suppressing the twinge he felt at severing contact with his brother ( _who had shut his eyes again, damn it, why don’t you ever listen to me, knucklehead_?). It would be fine, Ford told himself. He wouldn’t be gone long.

Stanford stood purposefully, removing his interdimensional gun from its holster. _Let’s see how they like being on the receiving end of one of these,_ he thought darkly.

“Hey! Where are you going?” the girl flung the question at him like an accusation, yet there was a very childlike confusion behind it.

“To take care of the agents,” he replied without glancing back.

“But Grunkle Stan _needs_ you!” she cried. Ford paused, recalling the soft crescendo of his brother’s pulse before he slipped away – but _no,_ what would   remaining here do? He couldn’t do much else for Stan, did not have the equipment or the medical expertise to indefinitely ensure his survival. Leaving didn’t guarantee or sabotage anything, he reasoned, if only to satisfy the bloodlust howling in his veins.

“We can’t risk them finding us,” Ford spoke over his shoulder, hoping to placate her. “And we can’t do anything with Stan until they are out of the way.”

Perhaps he’d said that with too much relish, as he might have heard a gulp from her general direction. No more protests came, so Ford began walking again.

 _“Wait!”_ It was the boy who had shouted this time. There was more authority behind this cry, more desperation. Ford turned to regard him - Dipper, the girl had called him.  

Dipper was rummaging around in a backpack, very hurriedly, all-too aware of the Author’s limited willingness to divert from his mission. With a hum of triumph, he found whatever he’d been seeking and presented the object to Ford like a nervous but knowledgeable student would an intimidating teacher. “Th-This might work, right?”

The item he offered to Stanford was one he hadn’t seen in decades, yet recognized immediately. A memory erasing gun, constructed by his old colleague and friend, Fiddleford McGucket.

“So you can stay and take care of Grunkle Stan,” said Dipper, trying to sound commanding. Yet his gaze was terribly pleading.

Jaw set tight, Ford held the memory gun in his left hand and the weapon in his right. The boy had a brilliant point, and if prior events hadn’t taken such a dire turn, he would have commended him. Stanford could certainly use this to get rid of the agents without resorting to violence, as he would try under normal circumstances.

Only this time, Ford _knew_ that wasn’t what he wanted to do. Truth be told, he wanted nothing more than to find the person or people responsible and make them pay.

Looking at the faces of these wary children now, though, he was forced to consider their arguments.

It hadn’t occurred to him even a moment ago that more gun violence was probably the last thing they wanted to witness right now. Or that he might return to learn that his revenge had been for nothing, that his brother had taken a turn for the worst while he was gone, and that his victory would be as hollow and cold as a corpse.

So it was with a dour dose of self-restraint and compassion that Ford gave a small nod of acquiescence. And for the first time in a long time, whether he realized it or not, put someone else’s desire before his own.


	3. Gonna Do You Wrong

In the uneasy peace that settled over the house as the storm of action calmed, Stanford took this opportunity to journey upstairs for a shower. Mostly due to the disarming fact that his hands were covered in his brother’s blood, and even an attempt to wipe them on a rag Soos had handed him couldn’t fully erase red tint from his skin.

During this idle reprieve, his mind wandered to the large amount of information he’d collected since returning to this dimension.

_The children, Mabel and Dipper respectively, Ford discovered, were family. And with Dipper’s blatant resemblance to a younger him and Stan, that made far too much sense to even question._

_“So Stanley is your great uncle,” he followed with a nod, showing that he understood. “Then that means your grandfather would be…”_

_For a paranoid second, Stanford panicked, recalling the few awkward trysts he’d had in college and wondering if_ – _but_ no, _that was impossible,_ clearly – _unless_ that _was why Diane Katil was always keen to avoid him after_ –

_“Shermie. Grandpa Shermie,” Mabel filled in the blank left by his silence, looking at him oddly._

_Oh. Right. Well, yes, that made_ far _more sense. It was easy to forget about their older brother, Sherman Pines, who was six years their senior. Especially when operating on a lack of sleep._

_“Hey, Mr. Author?” she then asked, perfectly precocious._

_“Call me Ford,” he told her, smiling faintly._

_“Yeah, that’s the thing,” she replied, returning the smile before confusion consumed her features. “Why d'you keep calling Grunkle Stan, Stanley? His name is Stanford.”_

_“What?_ I’m _Stanford,” Ford clarified, voice rising with incredulity. “Your ‘Grunkle Stan’ is my brother, Stanley.”_

_The twins shared a look. “That…isn’t what everyone in town thinks,” said Mabel slowly._

_Comprehension settled over Dipper’s features. "Maybe that explains the obituary we found,“ he said to his sister, and Ford had a split second to wonder at that before being bombarded by a second wave of information. "He must have faked his death so everyone believes Stan Pines is dead!”_

_“So he assumed my identity, probably doing who knows what under my name all these years," Stanford grumbled, unable to keep a hint of resentment from infiltrating. "Typical.”_

_Mabel frowned. “I’m sure Grunkle Stan has a good reason for lying,” she said, a note of reproach in her voice. “We just have to wait for him to get better and then he’ll tell us.”_

_Her bubbly optimism simmered slightly at the sight of her sickly uncle._

_“Whenever that will be,” she mumbled, resting her chin on Stan’s arm, much like a despondent puppy. “Are you sure it’s okay for him to sleep so long?”_

_“His body’s reserving energy so it can recover. That, coupled with the pain of his injury, means that him sleeping undisturbed is a blessing,” answered Ford, and as unnerving as it was to see Stan so still and pale, he knew it was the truth._

These introductions that Ford reflected on now had taken place once Stan was settled and the direness of the situation had calmed somewhat.

After disposing of the agents, he had immediately gone about figuring what to do for his brother’s recovery. Loathed to move him far, as preventing Stan from losing any more blood was top priority, they ultimately set up a space for him in the basement, on an old table furnished with a few blankets. And an orthopedic back pillow, that the children had insisted upon, otherwise Stan would “complain about his old man aches” as soon as he woke.

The damp temperature of the basement was not ideal, but they made do by keeping Stan wrapped in Ford’s traveling coat, along with a thick quilt.

Upstairs was much warmer, what with the summer weather filtering through the cracks of the old Shack, and Ford noticed that there was barely any chill even as he stepped out of the shower.

He had never been overly concerned with the state of his clothes or hygiene during his travels (okay, maybe even before that) but simply by comparison to everyone else, Ford felt grimy and, assured that Stan’s condition was not changing anytime soon, took the time to enjoy a thorough washing.  

After the meticulous task of shaving with a _razor_ (damn the archaic appliances of this dimension, might as well have been using a _butter knife_ ), Ford went in search of clothing, as his travel attire could do with a wash, and it would be foolhardy to sabotage his new state of cleanliness. The only likely place to find clothes was his brother’s room.

It wasn’t difficult to locate, yet as he trudged through the halls, a polarizing sense of both familiarity and unfamiliarity followed.

To Ford, it was still the place he owned that was still filled with many of his possessions, the place he had lived for six years and the place of the research he’d devoted his studies to, and so he navigated the halls with a confidence that bespoke of this sense of ownership.

Yet at the same time, there were clear and distinct differences to the house now compared to the way he’d left it. Many of his experiments or artifacts had been converted into furniture or displays. In laymen’s terms, Stan had made the place more homely.

Also, though, Stan had imbued little nuances of his personality into the house, a fact which was hard to ignore, especially when he entered the bedroom - which was so in tune to his brother’s distinct and sometimes ridiculous tastes that had Ford stifling a snort or two.

Going through his brother's things almost seemed like an invasion of privacy, but this small moment of discomfort was squashed by the fact that this was _his_ house, Stan’s room or no (and he wondered, distantly, if this was how Stan felt shortly after he’d disappeared through the portal – like he was walking in another man’s footsteps, an intruder disturbing the status quo).

Rummaging through his brother’s wardrobe didn’t yield many results. Hardly anything except suits and Hawaiian shirts. Along with what appeared to be a leather biker jacket. _Seriously,_ _Stan?_

Luckily, there were a few boxes at the bottom of the closet, where he found a plain maroon sweater and a pair of black pants that would suit him fine.

There was another box that laid just outside the closet that he decided to check as well. The sides of it were covered in a layer of dust, indicating that the box had been stored away for quite some time. However, the top was noticeably dust free, the implications of which were not lost on Ford.

Folded within the box was one of the long, beige overcoats he’d favored while living in Gravity Falls. His spare, actually, the original having went into the portal with him and eventually lost to time and damage. Stanford unraveled the wrinkled fabric, running his thumb along the creases. It was nice to have a piece of clothing that matched his own preferred style without being borrowed, a piece of his identity preserved.

Unbidden, an image Stan dragging the box from store floated through his mind, brushing the dust and cobwebs away as he prepared for Ford’s arrival like a giddy child awaiting the visit of an estranged yet beloved relative. Unearthing his possessions so Ford could have them when he returned. Hell, the fact that Stan had kept them carefully preserved all these long years was quite a show of loyalty.

He pursed his lips, trying to suppress a smile at the thoughtful gesture. His brother, though he’d deny with all his might, had always been sentimental like that. But that didn’t make Stan’s actions any less reckless, Ford reminded himself, and no amount of sentiment would erase the threat now aimed at this dimension. Still, it added some extra weight to the expression of glee his greeting punch had knocked from his brother’s face, and looking back, Stanford pondered if he had been a _bit_ too harsh. He quickly shook the idle thought away.

Finally, Ford shrugged into the coat, letting the ends billow around his legs. It was a tad snug, as he’d gained some muscle mass and bulk during his travels through the multiverse; mostly, however, it fit well. He had purchased the coat to last a long while, moreover, and so had purposefully bought a larger size.

Surprisingly, Stan had a decent collection of books on display, so Ford chose an unfamiliar title that sounded promising and headed downstairs. He had assumed the others would have retired, what with the late hour and the day’s draining events. The basement was indeed quiet when he returned, yet by no means empty.

The handyman, Soos, was snoozing against the wall with his mouth agape as he snored. Mabel’s head was nestled on her pig – _Waffles,_ was it? No, _Waddles_  – who was curled next to Soos’ knees, and she was deep in slumber.

Meanwhile, Dipper was awake had taken over his vigil, stealing the chair Ford had vacated and watching the gentle rise and fall of Stan’s chest.

“…I’m still mad at you for lying, you know,” Dipper muttered into the silence. Ford started, thinking that perhaps he’d been caught lurking, only to realized that his great nephew was talking to his unconscious uncle. “So you better wake up, old man, and explain yourself to everyone.”

It was an impressive display, although apparently a ruse, as a moment after his bold command the bravado visibly slipped from Dipper's shoulders.

 _“Please.”_ He sighed, slumping even further. His voice took on a more dejected tone, “I’m not really even mad anymore, I promise. I-I was just trying to be tough so you’d take me seriously…”

Deciding to make his presence known, Ford cleared his throat. Perhaps he should have given a better warning, however; the boy jumped at the abrupt noise and swung around, the memory gun aimed at the potential intruder.

Ford raised his hands as a show of peace, not truly afraid of the device, given the natural defense the metal plate afford him. “Just me,” he swore, waiting for the child’s wide eyes to soften in recognition.

“Sorry,” Dipper mumbled, blushing a bit.

“It’s quite alright,” assured Ford, mustering somewhat of a chuckle. “I expect you’d be on high alert after recent events. Frayed nerves and whatnot.”

He watched as the boy nodded, rubbing at his drooping eyes. “You know, there’s not much else you can do right now,” Ford added. “You should follow your sister’s lead and get some rest.”

Dipper shook his head. “I’m fine. It took Mabel forever to fall asleep, anyway, and she’s usually out like a light. So there’s no point in me trying,” he said resolutely, even as he yawned.  

Ford quirked an eyebrow at the child. Stubborn, eh?

“The odds of him waking up soon are slim. If you don’t attempt to sleep now, then you might miss your chance to speak to him later when you body inevitably gives out from exhaustion.”

In the face of bold logic, it appeared the boy had little defense. Nodding, Dipper staggered out of the chair. “Okay. But if he wakes up,” he began seriously, “you – you tell him I said we have to talk.”

“I certainly will,” Ford humored, watching out of the corner of his eye as the boy stumbled over to the man, girl and pig before flopping down beside his sister. Then he shifted his attention back to his brother.

His brother who slept on, unable to speak, unable to answer any of his inquiries. Chief among them, what _exactly_  had he been doing since Ford had gone, besides constructing this strange conglomeration of people around him?

The more Ford considered it, the stranger the assortment of people around him seemed to become. From what he had gathered, Dipper and Mabel had only spent the summer under Stan’s guardianship, and hadn’t had any prior contact to Gravity Falls before that. Yet for just being here such a short amount of time, they seemed so closely tied to the town, the inhabitants, and most especially attached to their "grunkle."

And then there was the handyman, Soos, who wasn't even a blood relation. He hadn’t left since Ford’s dramatic arrival, though from an explanation of his occupation alone, Ford would’ve assumed the man to be a mere employee. There was also a girl named Wendy, another employee the kids and Soos had mentioned, who had a close enough relationship to Stan that it was vital she be brought into the loop. Her, a teenager who simply worked the counter.

Somehow these people, as unrelated as they all initially appeared, had formed a close-knit unit, with his brother at the center of it all. Obviously, they meant something to Stan, to show such concern for his wellbeing, as well as loyalty to a man who had deceived them all. Or at the very least, Stan definitely meant something to them.

He glanced back at the trio, and saw that contrary to the Dipper’s earlier assertions, he was already fast asleep, with him and Mabel were curled against one another for warmth. It reminded him of the winters in New Jersey, a lifetime ago; it wasn’t uncommon in those day for the brothers to huddle on the same bed on cold nights. While Ford logically pointed out that heat rose so it made more sense that Stan come to _his_ bunk, Stan’s irrational fear of heights usually kept him from making the climb, forcing Ford to begrudgingly accommodate his phobia.

(For as much as he would complain, making the descent always beat watching his brother shake and stifle whimpers as he tried to brave the trek, and Stan’s grateful smiles used to make the inconvenience seem so small. When had that changed?)

Knowing that the kids were ill-dressed for the dampness of the basement, Ford shrugged out of his newly reclaimed coat and laid it over the twins, a makeshift blanket of sorts. Despite the provided warmth, the kids stayed glued to each other’s side. Well. Perhaps necessity wasn’t the only motivation for their actions.

Ford dismissed the thought as soon as it entered his brain, not finding it interesting enough to dwell on. Instead he propped open the book and began to read.

_…Tyler gets me a job as a waiter, after that Tyler’s pushing a gun in my mouth and saying, the first step to eternal life is you have to die…_

* * *

Eventually, Ford had fallen asleep - one of those deep, unassuming slumbers that you don’t even realize have taken you until you wake up several hours later.

He stretched from where he was slumped over his brother’s makeshift bed. Stan didn’t even stir, which wasn’t shocking, yet somehow still a minor disappointment. Distraction from his brother’s stagnant condition came swiftly, an out-of-tune hum drifting into the room.

The handyman entered, looking no worse for wear, despite having spent the night on an uncomfortable floor. “Hey, you’re awake,” Soos greeted brightly.

Ford nodded. “The last one to do so, apparently,” he muttered, throwing the book he’d been reading aside.

Soos shrugged. “You were the last one asleep, too,” he said, as though that was a reasonable enough explanation. “I got up early and went home to see my _abuela_ and get some supplies. The twins are making breakfast upstairs.”

Digesting this, Ford made no move to trudge upstairs and assist. Twelve-year-olds could be trusted to operate a stove without supervision, couldn’t they? Besides, he had more pressing matters to attend to.

Even as he thought this, the handyman moved towards his brother, pulling something from his pocket. “What are you doing?" Ford questioned.

"Changing the bandages,” Soos replied. “Abuelita said it’s important to keep them clean.”

“I can do that,” said Ford simply, gesturing for the bandages. Although this young man had proven to be capable in his amateur medical abilities, he didn’t really trust anyone but himself to be the primary attendant when his brother was in such a precarious state. “I need to check the area around the wound, anyway.”

“No sweat, dude, I got this one,” Soos insisted. “Can you prop him up for me, though?”

Reluctantly, Ford assented to letting the other man take the lead. Slowly, so as not to jostle the stitches, he tilted Stan’s upper half into a half-sitting position. Soos set about changing the bandages.

Warmth radiated from his brother’s skin, and while it meant he was no longer at risk for hypothermia, it could potentially point towards another danger.

His brother’s white button-down had already been cut away for easy access to the wound. As it was, Stan’s coat was only left only hanging onto him at this point. At the even the slightest movement of Ford’s repositioning, the loose fabric shifted, revealing the bare skin of his brother’s right shoulder. Except that it was _not_  bare, and even before Ford’s brain could process what his eyes saw, an unsuspecting breath caught in his throat.

It had left a scar. _Of course_ it had.

To anyone who happened to catch a glimpse of the scar, they would probably think it a tattoo, the way the faded blue lines appeared etched into the skin. Only Stanford could see the mark for what it was, see that the lines had been melded into the skin through extreme temperatures, the white hot metal searing them into the flesh.

 _Branding_ his brother. _Permanently._

“Uh, Author dude?" asked Soos uneasily. Stanford must have inhaled sharply, clenched his fists, done something to supply a hint; or perhaps the young man was more intuitive than he seemed and sensed the shift in his demeanor. "You, uh, alright?”

Ford said nothing. Gently, and without a word of explanation, he settled Stan back onto the flat surface.

“You can finish without me, can’t you?” Soos’s brow creased further at this brusque question that wasn’t really a question at all.

“Sure, I mean-” Stanford didn’t wait for him to finish before ejecting himself from the room. He couldn’t tell whether his actions would be taken as that of squeamish person exposed to blood or the calloused impatience of someone who didn’t give a damn. Nor did he care.

He had to get away. Get some fresh air. The worst wasn’t the memory of his brother’s face twisted with agony or the echo of his scream. No, it was the scent of singed, burning flesh which haunted him most. A smell that had followed him across dimensions, clung to his very clothes.

Passing the vending machine now concealing the basement entrance, the air was cleaner. The smell of syrup and sugar replaced the ghost of those other scents, clearing his head. Allowing his mind to chase itself in circles, attempting to rationalize, appropriating blame and justifications.

 _Stan had started that fight._ But Stan hadn’t known that about the burning sigil on the side of the desk. _Stan was pulling so hard on the journal that momentum would have sent him flying into the desk anyway._ But it was not Stan’s boot that had pressed him into the mark, was it?

Ford scowled at the ground beneath his boots. It was no wonder he’d barely contemplated his brother in the thirty years they had spent apart. There was never any consensus. Never any easy answers.

Like the situation at hand, the situation that _Stan_ had left him with, it was always a mess.


	4. Waiting to Break

Within a few minutes of exiting the basement, Ford felt infinitely better than he had, yet still decided that a dose fresh air from outside would do him a world of good. The air was warm and muggy, the sky a crisp and clear blue, and taking in the scent of summer grass and forest pines surrounding him, the Author of the journals realized that he was indeed back home in Oregon.

On the doorstep sat a freshly delivered newspaper, which he gratefully picked up. Reading it would give him a chance to catch up on current events, at least.

Only seconds after shutting the front door behind him, newspaper in hand, Mabel appeared and urged him to join them in the kitchen.

Ford conceded, if only because he couldn’t quite stomach returning to the basement yet, and the idea of breakfast _was_ appealing. He sat down at the table as Mabel cheerily placed a plate in front of him, and he absently began to eat, while reading the headlines surrounding the gravitational anomalies caused by the portal; which, fortunately for them, the town was chalking up to an unexplained series of seismic quakes.  

He was too distracted to even realize he was eating _pancakes with bacon bits_ cooked inside until he had already consumed about half of the salty sweet concoction. By that point, there was no use stopping, and he couldn’t very well complained when Mabel thoughtfully shoved a steaming mug of coffee his way.

“Thank you,” he said graciously, taking a sip. But as soon as the liquid touched his tongue, he coughed, swallowing a bit forcefully.

Mabel titled her head like confused puppy. “Did I make it wrong?”

“No," answered Ford, shaking his head. "Just wasn’t expecting so much cream.”

“Oh, sorry,” she mumbled, flushing. “I should’ve asked before, that’s just how…how Grunkle Stan took his coffee…”

Her mood flipped on its heels as her voice trailed off, and her lips knitted together tightly over a trembling skin, like she was holding back tears.

“It’s fine,” he assured quickly, uncomfortable and not wishing to upset her further (he had _no_ idea how to deal with a hysteric child and that was one experiment that he didn’t wish to test).Taking another sip, he smiled a little, which placated her.

“Nobody’s noticed what really caused the anomalies, then?” asked Dipper around a mouthful of toast, leaning over the table to read the front page. Bemused, Ford laid the paper flat for him, so the boy had easier access.

“Seems not,” he hummed, as the twelve-year-old scanned the article.

 _“Baby earthquakes?_ People in this town will believe anything,” snorted Dipper, after reading a local’s comment. “Which is good for once, I guess.”

“They’re brains are probably a bit scrambled from all that memory erasing!” Mabel chirped from the stove, scrambling the egg yokes in her bowl for emphasis.

Ford frowned, briefly wondering if they were referring to that ‘Blind Eye Society’ nonsense that had cropped up a hair’s breadth before his disappearance. Before he could ask, however, there was a clatter from the other room.

“U-Uh, Mr. Author?” came Soos’ poorly disguised panic, loud enough for them to hear all the way in the kitchen. “Could you, ah, come here a sec?”

Immediately, Ford rose. “Stay here,” he ordered the children, who blinked curiously at his departure.

“What is it?” he demanded as he bounded down the steps two at a time, hastening to catch up with the younger man’s strides.

“He started to move and I got excited, thinking maybe he was waking up, but then he didn’t answer when I called his name and worse–” Soos prattled nervously as they arrived at the third floor, where Stan was twisting and turning as though caught in the throes of a nightmare.

Ford approached his brother and started to check his vitals, while the handyman stayed behind, cautiously adding, “I-I was afraid to touch him. It’s not one of those seizure type deals, is it?”

“Not a seizure, no,” Stanford muttered, and heard the other man sigh with relief. He didn’t take much comfort from this, realizing that they were far from being out of the woods.  

Brushing the back of his hand against his brother’s forehead, Ford instantly felt the intense heat radiating from his skin.

_Warm. Much too warm._

“He’s feverish,” he muttered, hands tearing at the freshly-wrapped bandages, needing to see the wound.

“I meant to, I was gonna mention before,” Soos stuttered. Bef _ore you stormed out like a lunatic_. “The wound, it – it doesn’t look so good.”

As soon as he saw the red, inflamed skin, Ford cursed in several languages, most of them foreign to this planet. “Not good at all,” he hissed, shutting his eyes. “It’s gotten infected.”

Worse case scenario indeed – this was exactly the outcome he’d wanted to prevent at all costs, and for a moment he basked in the failure of this endeavor, trying to figure where things had gone wrong. However, the odds had obviously been stacked against them to begin with; the basement wasn’t an ideal, sterile location to house someone during their convalescence and they didn’t have access to the antibiotics key to preventing the spread of infection. In addition, there was Stan’s age, which made him vulnerable to slow wound healing.

Ford sent Soos upstairs to keep the kids occupied, but really, it was so he could have the silence and privacy to clean the wound. It was awful, necessary work that a person with poor compartmentalizing skills might have more difficult stomaching. Not so much for the bit of puss and other fluids infections tended to exude, but for the fact that Stanly was under no anesthetic, and every touch to the inflamed area wrung a raspy moan or violent flinch from his feverish sibling, who had no concept of what was going on, only that he was in pain.

By the end of the cleaning, even the normally stoic Ford couldn’t bear to let his brother bear this affliction without some type of sedative. He doubted the house had any medication would put a dent in this level of pain; luckily, he had other means of doing so.

Searching through the satchel he’d brought from his travels, Ford found the vial of substance he would need. There was a certain formula that was handy for sneaking Infinity-Sided dies and other illegal items past Interdimensional Customs, a short-term paralysis trick he’d picked up from a former associate (more like _enemy,_ but well, Sanchez could be useful at times), and he usually kept the ingredients on hand. One of the chemicals used to concoct the formula, moreover, had a strong numbing agent. The right dosage and mixture that could, in a pinch, be used to make a decent sedative.

He could do that for his brother right now, at least.

After that, though, _what?_ Sedating Stan might let him rest for a while and ease Ford’s mind, but it would not stop the infection from spreading. They needed to find a permanent solution before Stan’s condition grew any worse.

Before he got past the point where Ford wouldn’t be able to do _anything_ for him.

* * *

The fever had not subsided a bit, even by the time he called a meeting an hour later. In fact, according to Mabel’s thermometer, Stan’s temperature was about 104.3, a number which made the girl frown and question the device’s accuracy. Stanford solemnly assured her that it was correct.

“Your uncle’s wound has gotten infected from bacteria exposure. It's something I foresaw as a possibility, but nevertheless, very dangerous under these circumstances.” He frowned gravely. “We need antibiotics to combat this infection. Strong ones.”

Smiling hopefully, Mabel said, “Okay, so we just take a trip to the pharmacy an–”

“Antibiotics that only a hospital would have in stock,” Ford informed, swiftly dashing her hopes. “And they don’t exactly sell them at the front desk.”

“Mayyyybe if we explain the situation and ask nicely…” she tried, unwilling to surrender her optimism.

“We’re trying to keep a low profile, Mabel,” Dipper reminded. Ford nodded.

“Bringing outsiders into the loop isn’t an option. Personnel would ask too many questions and we can’t risk getting anyone involved.” His sharp eyes swept over the room, unwilling to picture the mass panic if anything down here was discovered. “If we’re going to obtain the materials we need, then we’re going to have to do so without their knowledge.”

The pieces of the implication came together quicker for Dipper, whose brow furrowed as the picture began to form.

“Wait… you mean, we’re going to have to _rob a hospital?”_

“I am afraid so,” Ford affirmed. “Now, I understand that you might have reservations-”

“No, I mean, that’s fine,” Dipper went on, blasé as could be, throwing his uncle through a loop. The boy rubbed his chin in thought. _“How_ exactly are we going to pull it off, though?”

Mabel rolled her eyes. “It’s not like robbing a bank, Dipper, I’m sure hospital security isn’t _that_ hard to sneak past!”

“Yeah, they’re way more concerned with keeping patients in than keeping people out,” Soos added.

“I could probably rob a bank,” Dipper mumbled under his breath, vaguely contemplating the idea.

Blinking owlishly, Ford observed this dialogue with a degree of surprise. “Evidently, the prospect of committing a felony isn’t a new concept to you kids.”

Dipper shrugged at his remark. “Stealing’s not exactly _good,”_ he reasoned. “But if you’re stealing to help someone, then it’s not necessarily _bad,_ right?”

Ford found his lips quirking of their own accord. “Yes, exactly right,” he agreed whole-heartedly. For the greater good, precisely. He couldn’t have said it better himself.

“Morals are relative!” Mabel declared, perhaps too eagerly. “So anyway, what _is_ the plan?”

“I’ve been mulling it over,” Stanford interjected, taking the lead. “And much as I feel I’m more experienced in handling these matters, a native more familiar with the hospital layout should go. Also, someone should remain with Stan at all times, to ensure his condition does not worsen.”

He sighed, fingers folded under his chin. “That leaves the question of _who_ to send in my place…”

“Wendy!” Dipper and Mabel exclaimed at the same time.

“The cashier?” asked Ford, eyebrow arched.

Vigorously, Mabel nodded. “She can do it!”

Skeptical, Ford replied stonily, “Out of the question. I can’t leave my brother’s health in the hands of a mere teenager.”

“Wendy is definitely _not_ just a teenager,” Dipper stated with unprecedented vehemence.

“Great Uncle Ford, you don’t understand, she’s really _pro_ at stealing stuff,” Mabel explained. “Grunkle Stan even noticed her talent and took her under his wing!”

“Dude, they could've gone far, too. Made criminal history! If Stan didn’t take the fall for her and get arrested,” Soos chimed in.

Ford didn’t even bother asking about that bit about arrest. Another question to add to the ever-growing list saved for _Later,_ he supposed.

“And she saved us from that Shapeshifter we found in the bunker,” Dipper relayed, nose scrunched. “Seriously, why do you still have that thing down there, anyway? It’s dangerous!”

“You found the bunker?” Ford’s eyes widened minutely, voice dropping an octave as he asked lowly, “The Shapeshifter isn’t _loose,_ is it?”

“No, it’s locked away,” Dipper reassured, crossing his arms. _“Thanks_ to Wendy.”

Stanford hummed in consternation, considering his options. Not that he had many. Or really _any,_ for that matter. Still, it didn’t sit right trusting a girl he had never even met before with such an important mission. The children seemed to rally behind her, though, which wasn’t a stunning endorsement but better than nothing…

“Fine,” Stanford relented. “If she can handle a creature of that caliber, I suppose robbing a medical facility shouldn’t be _too_ much of a challenge.”

“I’ll call her right now!” Mabel exclaimed, racing upstairs.

“I have a list of materials she must obtain,” Ford told the remaining two gravely, handing the paper to Dipper, who nodded in understanding. With purpose, he regarded the handyman, who straightened under his stare.

“You. Soos, isn’t it? You mentioned your grandmother was a nurse?" When the young man nodded, Ford went on, "Anything she thinks should be added to this list would be much appreciated.”

Given the chance to contribute, the handyman nodded determinedly. A tug at his sleeve drew Ford’s attention back to Dipper, who inquired, “When should we be ready to go?”

Not answering right away, Ford walked over to his unconscious brother, to whom they were willing to go to so much trouble to save. His features were flushed, and though he remained unconscious, his chest heaved with ragged breaths, his body wracked by the occasion shudder. _Sepsis_ was not a pretty prognosis, and Ford might not be a physician, but he knew the longer they waited, the closer Stan was brought to the point of multiple organ failure, poisoned by his own failing immune system.

It was with a heavy heart but a steady voice that he told his nephew, “As soon as possible.”

* * *

The children and Soos had left to meet Wendy a half and hour ago. Now there was nothing to do but wait.

And what a pleasant job _that_ was, Ford mused bitterly. Nothing to do but sit by his ailing brother’s bedside, play doctor while his head swarmed with visions of what could go wrong with the hospital heist, the ill-effects of the still functioning portal, the symptoms of septic shock–

Groaning, Stanford stood to pace around the room. He needed something to aside from watching as his sibling slumber in relative peace. _Something_ to occupy his thoughts so they didn’t run themselves rampant.

Noticing that the damp cloth on Stan’s head was no longer cool, Ford decided to re-fill the bowl of cold water so another could be reapplied. The brisk trip upstairs was a minor distraction, yet definitely a welcome one.

When he returned, Stan was no longer a living statue, but a flurry of activity - thrashing to and fro, twisting under the quilt as though it was a prison, still half-asleep and panting through his nose.

 _Be careful what you wish for,_ a snide voice in the back of his mind unhelpfully supplied.

A fever dream, no doubt. He could simply wait it out, but Ford feared too much motion might irritate the wound further. Setting the bowl aside, he walked over to his brother, and after a brief moment of hesitation, laid a gentle hand on Stan’s chest.

“Relax,” he said quietly, somehow managing to make it sound like an order. The skin beneath his fingertips continued to jerk and quake, causing him to huff. “Stan, c'mon. Just lay still.”

As if only egged on by his request, Stan took no heed of his advice – certainly nothing new _there_  – and nearly pitched himself off the bed with a gasp hands scrabbling blindly for purchase.

 _That_ was quite enough of that. “Stanley, _stop!”_ Ford snapped, trying to get through to his brother. “Listen to me. You are going to make things worse if you do not calm down.”

For a moment, it appeared to have worked. Stan’s struggling ceased, and slowly, his eyes began to flutter. Dazed, disoriented pupils wandered aimlessly through half-open lids until they caught sight of Ford and froze. Ford straightened, about to speak, thinking that his brother had gained enough awareness to recognize him, but that theory went flying out the window when he heard the next word rush past his brother’s lips.

_“Dad?”_

Pure, unexpected shock barreled though the older twin. Stanford opened his mouth, lips moving, yet no sound escaped him.

“Dad,” Stan croaked again. Sounding both unfathomably young and inexpressibly tired at the same time. _“M'sorry.”_

“No, I-I’m _not–”_ Ford shook his head. It was a mistake, a trick of the fever. Both of them had advanced in age, and it was no secret which parent they had grown to resemble. He sighed sympathetically. “Stanley, you’re hallucinating. Not thinking straight.”

Unable to hear him, his brother babbled on, sounding sick in more ways than one.

“Just… _Please._ Please let me come home,” Stan begged softly, coughing as the words rattled his dry throat, shutting his eyes as shivers wracked his body. “I’m cold. I-It’s cold here.”

Ignoring a stab of inexplicable guilt, Ford adjusted the quilt from where it had been displaced by his brother’s thrashing. His sibling’s brain, attempting not to boil, was sending messages to the body that had his senses going haywire; to him, it must be freezing, even as his skin burned with fever.

“I know, Stan,” he murmured in what he hoped was a comforting tone, awkwardly patting his arm. “You’ll feel better soon.”

His brother flinched at the touch. “E-Everybody looks like they wanna gut me,” he rasped, sucking in a sharp breath. “N-Noo, I don’t – h-have it – I _can’t_ …”

Ford frowned. “Can’t _what?”_ he pressed, eyes narrowing. “Stanley, where are you?”

Predictably, there was no answer, but judging by his terror-stricken expression, it was clear that wherever this dream or memory had taken Stan, it was no place safe.

“Sorry…I _screwed up_ …I-I won’t… _not again.”_ The last part came out choked, not quite pleading, not quite a statement.

Desperately, Ford tried rousing his brother, wishing he could see whatever enemy it was, fight them back, make them pay. But this wasn’t an agent with a gun or a monster under the bed. He didn’t know what this was.

“Too dark. No room t-to, _please–”_ Stan’s breath caught, a terrible noise, like he couldn’t get enough air.   _“P-Por favor._ _N-No puedo respirar. No puedo respirar!”_

“Shh,” Ford soothed, grasping Stan’s shoulder. Having his own share of experience with panic attacks, Ford did what he could to drag his sibling back from the brink. But it proved frustratingly hard to get through to a person trapped somewhere between nightmare and reality. Somewhere Ford couldn’t reach.

(Was this Stan, thirty years ago, trying to speak to Ford, to breach the paranoid shroud around him and bridge the distance between them, a distance Ford had been more than happy to keep?)

 _“Hey._ Stan? Stanley!” he cried sternly, as his brother let out a particularly worrying wheeze.  _“Listen_ to me. Only to my voice. Just breathe, alright? Slow, deep breaths…”

There was no way of knowing whether his voice would be enough to do the trick; but then, Stan had always listened to him back when they were kids, whenever it really counted. On that note, Ford flashbacked to when they were little more than toddlers during a storm, the voice of their mother lulling her fussing sons. She had never told them that the stripes of lightning that cut across the sky were not intimidating or that the thunder wasn’t scary; she had only said, _Don’t worry, I’m here._

Looking back, that was probably how they learned to comfort each other. Late nightmares that they were too ashamed to bother their folks with, concern that the shadows on the walls were more than just figures of their imagination, all dispelled with a simple, _Hey, bro, I got your back! I’m with you_.

“You’re safe now. There’s no need to be alarmed,” Ford assured, squeezing his brother’s wrist, not sure how much the motion would help. “I’m here.”

Eventually, Stan settled down, eyes slipping closed and flickering beneath the lids. _“Sorry,”_ he murmured one more time before his breaths evened out, and the room fell into a daunting silence.

With the danger passed, Ford sunk into the chair beside the bed. Removing his glasses, he scrubbed at his face, feeling more weary than he had in a long time. Traversing through the multiverse had given him vigor, imbued him with the spirit of a seasoned adventurer, a hardened warrior. Now he felt old. Old, and full of a disturbing amount of doubt.

He had never given much thought into what Stan’s life was like before Gravity Falls (had always assumed it was _fine_ ). He hadn’t thought much about him after disappearing through the portal, either. There was a reason to wonder, now, and the ideas formed by these implications did not paint a comforting picture.

Abruptly recalling the unused bowl of water and cloth beside him, Ford got up. For a moment, however, he simply stood and watched the shallow rise and fall of his twin’s chest.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he whispered at last, brushing sweaty strands of hair away from Stan’s forehead. “Not for this.”

But it was too late. His brother had already passed out again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spanish Translations: Por favor - Please, No puedo respirar - I can’t breathe


	5. Can You Hear Me?

Currently, the weight of the world rested in his hands – yet the Rift seemed deceptively light and insignificant as it lay against his broad palm. Eyes never leaving the glass container, Ford yanked a curtain over the observation window, shielding the portal remains from view.

Leveling the machine that was both his greatest scientific achievement and his most grievous ethic folly to the ground was a longtime coming. And with Stan on the mend, Ford had finally gotten the chance to complete the _unfinished business_ that had been haunting him ever since his return.

Wendy’s raid on the hospital had been successful, much to Stanford’s astonishment, and relief. He had administered the antibiotics to Stan as soon as possible, praying they hadn’t come too late. For the most part, the medicine  appeared to be working, as Stan’s condition began to stabilize.

Dismantling the portal took no time at all, with as zealously as Ford tackled the task. He worked through the night, anxious to have the subject out of sight, out of mind.

Perhaps not the best phrase to use, he mused darkly. Even without a physical form and no dominion in this dimension, Bill had plenty of eyes, spies where you would least suspect. And out of mind, _well_. The metal plate prevented that from happening; however, that didn’t stop the knowledge of what was to come from pervading his thoughts.

As he stared at the Rift, the cosmic core of the fragile glass bubble a beautiful yet terrifying object to behold, Ford reminisced on the mistakes that had led to this point.

Remembered his younger self, so eager to take on the portal project, so enticed by the demon’s promises of grandeur. So fooled by the prospect of achieving something so amazing. So betrayed when the wool over his eyes was removed.

Even now, as he stood at the spot where Fiddleford had washed his hands of the project and urged Ford to do the same, he wondered why he had not taken his advice. A part of him still understood his younger self’s reasoning, yet another part balked at his arrogance, his assuredness that he could handle the fallout without sacrificing his life’s work.

That was the benefit of hindsight, he supposed.

He didn’t know what his old colleague was up to nowadays, but recalled the children’s comments on the Blind Eye Society, and understood that the cult was a pet project resulting from Fiddleford's attempts to remove the daunting experience from his memory. Hopefully, whatever his aim had been, it had given him the peace of mind Ford hadn’t yet been able to attain.

 _Stanford Pines, that man who changed the world!_ Looking back, Bill had not necessarily given that prediction to simply butter him up. But the question remained, change the world for _better_ or for _worse?_

Grunting, Ford tossed the thought aside. That was the past and nothing could be done. Nothing to do now except turn his gaze towards the future. He _would_ stop Cipher, prevent his plans from ever coming to fruition. Of that, Ford knew he was more than capable.

Certainly he was not to blame for Bill’s scheme. But he _had_ played a part, unwittingly yet willingly nonetheless, and with that came a certain amount of responsibility for his actions. Just as Stan was responsible for his...

“Boy, Great Uncle Ford, you sure can think hard. I can practically smell the smoke leaking from your ears!” Stanford jumped at the abrupt comment, fumbling to regain his composure.

Quickly, he shoved the Rift into a desk compartment before swiveling around to face his niece and her pig, hands folded behind his back.

“Mabel,” he greeted calmly, clearing his throat. “Y-You startled me.”

“Sorry,” she said sheepishly, thankfully disinterested in whatever he was trying to hide. “Waddles and I came to see how Grunkle Stan was doing.”

“Feel free,” Ford offered, waving an arm towards his brother. He watched as she climbed onto the chair beside the bed, and, removing the Fez that sat atop her pig’s head, ever so gently laid the hat on top of Stan’s chest.

“Hi, Grunkle Stan,” she greeted exuberantly. “It’s Mabel, your favorite niece. Well, technically your _only_ niece, but even if I wasn’t I know I’d still be your favorite.”

She lifted her pig. “Waddles is here, too. Say hello, Waddles.” The pig oinked on request. “He’s been taking care of the Fez while you’re asleep. He’s more than happy to, what with you being his hero an’ all. So don’t worry, it’s safe in his adorable pig hands.”

Setting him back on the floor, Mabel clasped her chin. “Let’s see, what else have you missed out on lately…” she mumbled aloud. "Shack’s still closed for repairs, but most of the town’s getting fixed up, so you aren’t losing much business. I know you’d hate that.“

Running her fingers along the fabric of Stan’s sleeve, she must have taken comfort in the motion, the physical contact.  "Dipper’s being mopey lately,” she informed morosely. “He’s probably just worried like the rest of us. The sooner you wake up, the better.”

Ford, who had been following the one-sided conversation without trying, found her efforts to keep his invalid uncle in the loop noble but unnecessary. Sensing the futility of her endeavor, he inquired, “Do you really believe he can hear you?”

“Sure he can,” Mabel answered with a conviction that came so easily. “And it helps, too. I saw it on _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”_

Ford cocked a brow. “Mutant _what?”_

“Mutant _turtles._ Who are ninjas that fight crime. And are also teenagers,” Mabel elaborated. “They kick butt and live in the sewer and eat pizza. We used to watch the show every Saturday morning with Mom and Dad. Dipper’s favorite is Donatello and I like Michelangelo.”

“Fascinating. Anthropomorphic reptilians adopting the monikers of Renaissance artists, with advanced motor skills and an affinity for martial arts." He scoffed, crossing his arms. "Preposterous, in theory, of course. Furthermore, a reptilian diet does not include dairy or-”

 _“Anyway,”_ Mabel interrupted loudly. “In an episode, one of the brothers got hurt real bad but his family helped him recover by talking to him, telling him stories.”

Releasing Stan’s sleeve, she picked up the Fez, fingers digging into the bright red material.

“So that’s why I do it,” she claimed adamantly. "Not so he can hear my words. Just so Grunkle Stan knows I’m here and that he’s not alone. And to remind him that his family’s waiting for him to wake up.“

The logic behind her actions still sounded questionable to Ford, yet her heart was so invested that he couldn’t help but lay a hand on her small shoulder, offering a squeeze of solidarity.  

"You should give it a try,” she urged, beaming at him. “You _are_ his brother.”

Despite her encouragement, Stanford frowned, his hand falling to his side. “I’m afraid it’s not so simple as a cartoon would have you believe,” he remarked in a low tone.

“Whaddya mean?” she pressed, pouting. “Seems simple to me.”

He sighed, knowing that her age was an impediment to understanding, as was her overly optimistic nature.

“…Stan and I aren’t as close as we once were,” he admitted grudgingly, unwilling to divulge the whole story just yet. “When you get older, things just have a way of changing. Sometimes, even all the time and experience in the multiverse cannot–”

Glancing out of the corner of his spectacles, to see if she was comprehending, he saw that her bright expression had dimmed into something confused and solemn, the burgeoning disillusionment of a star’s fading light.

“–never mind,” said Ford swiftly, brushing her off. “Adult matters, nothing with which you need to be concerned.”

His smile was threadbare as he tried to placate her again; it didn’t work as well as last time.

“Okay. I’ll just… Okay,” she replied quietly, though her voice remained kind as ever. She hopped off the stool and waved as she trotted towards the elevator with her pig in tow. "Have fun with your science stuff.“

She appeared more preoccupied with her thoughts as when she had arrived. Ford knew his words did not exactly sound reassuring, but could not condemn his own honesty. Perhaps it was _better_ she not cling to the notion that twins should forever be a set, a team upon which to build all your hopes.

Better she learn now than discover the truth the hard way somewhere down the line.

Falling into the chair she’d vacated, a habit at this point, Ford peered at his brother’s prone form, stuck in a comatose state that not even the medications could dent. And if they could not, no doubt he would fail–

"No,” he stated aloud, straightening. He was a _scientist,_ damn it. "I am not taking advice from a cartoon, of all vestiges of knowledge. There is no medical nor psychological evidence to prove that this would in any way benefit Stan’s recovery.“

 _Contrarily, there’s no evidence to say that it would be no help, either._ Stanford balked at the unbidden burst of logic, stewing in his own fallacy. Opening his mouth to speak, he quickly snapped it shut again. _No._  He felt foolish even attempting it.

Then again, perhaps Mabel had been right on one account. Perhaps he was at least obligated to try.

"Stan?” he whispered around a sigh. “If you can hear me, it’s… It’s _me,_ Ford.”

* * *

Although the Shack had yet to re-open, and neither Soos nor Wendy was on the clock, the register room was still where they were gathered, idly passing the time. Wendy read a magazine as she sat on the counter, occasionally lifting her feet so Soos could get by with the broom, singing, “Doodlely-doo, cleaning up debris, doodlely-doo.”

Meanwhile, Dipper sat on the floor, flipping through the pages of Journal Three. For once, the contents did not have him engrossed, and he skimmed disinterestedly, his mind too unfocused.

“Hey, Mabes,” Soos greeted as Mabel bounded upstairs, the _whoosh_ of the vending machine moving catching Dipper’s attention. “How’s Stan doing?”

“Not too hot. Which is actually good because fevers,” Mabel announced, shrugging. “Still not awake, though. Guess Waddles and I will have to hang onto this a little longer.”

She sighed, placing the Fez atop her pig’s head. This verdict deprived Dipper of what little hope he’d had for a better answer and Mabel seemed similarly disappointed.

“How about some free snacks from the vending machine, eh? Would that cheer you kids up?” Soos offered in a bid to raise their spirits

“Snacks have yet to fail me yet,” Mabel replied cheerily, looking to Dipper for affirmation

“Pass,” he muttered. Wendy frowned at his response, throwing down her magazine and jumping from the counter, hands on her hips in a manner that was decidedly un-laidback.

“Okay, dude. Time to spill,” she ordered in a no-nonsense voice. The other two rallied around her, staging an intervention. “You’ve been acting weird ever since I got here, and even before that, according to these two.”

Dipper wanted to be angry at them for apparently conspiring behind his back, but Mabel and Soos looked too sincerely worried on his behalf. The anger never came, trapped behind the dams that had been holding him together for the harrowing events of the last couple of days.

“It’s nothing,” he lied, unsuccessfully. He didn’t have the finesse.

_You should have learned from Stan before–_

He shook his head, dispelling that notion from his mind.

“Are you mad at Mr. Pines for lying?” Soos questioned.

“No, not so much anymore,” Dipper replied earnestly.

Mabel asked, “Are you worried about him not being awake yet?”

 _“Of course.”_  He rubbed at his upper arm, gaze downcast. “But also…”

Even without glancing up, Dipper could feel all theirs eyes on him, waiting, and judging, and the truth was pounding against the walls of his stomach, lodging his heart in the back of his throat.

“I feel guilty, alright?” he burst out, the dams inside of him releasing at full throttle. “B-Because it’s _my_ fault Stan got shot.”

“What?!” Mabel squawked, while Soos and Wendy balked at this declaration. “…Bro-Bro, that’s the craziest thing you’ve said since you were sleep-deprived and possessed by a demon!”

“Listen to your sister, dude,” said Wendy, recovering from her shock. _“None_ of this is your fault.”

“Yes, it _is,”_ Dipper snapped, with all the force of the excess emotion inside. “Don’t you understand? Those agents thought everything was a hoax and were going to _leave_ Gravity Falls! But I-I was so _obsessed_ with finding the truth that I called them even after Grunkle Stan told me not to. _I_ brought them back to town.”

Subdued, Dipper glanced at the basement entrance, voice sinking into despair. “Now I have all the answers I could ever want but Grunkle Stan is…is…”

He couldn’t even finish the thought, and to his shame, there were tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, borne of days of frustration and holding back all the fear and guilt he’d kept bottled up.

Mabel laid a tender hand on his back and said softly, "Dipper, you couldn’t have known what would happen.“

"That doesn’t change anything, Mabel,” he barked, bitterly. She appeared stricken by the rejection, slowly retracting her hand.

“Hey, c'mon,” Wendy insisted. “There’s no way Mr. Pines would want you to beat yourself up over this.”

“Y-Yeah!” Mabel agreed, grabbing the Fez from Waddles’ head and donning it herself. “I-If Grunkle Stan were here, he’d say, ‘Shut yer yap, Dipper, you’re getting your sulky preteen angst all over the carpet!’”

Wendy and Soos chuckled at her impersonation, and even Dipper cracked a smile at his sister’s antics. How could he not, when she sounded more like a pirate with a sore throat than their gruff guardian?

“'If anyone’s to blame, it’s those lousy cops. Always pullin’ me over, chargin’ me with counterfeiting,’” Wendy added in her best crotchety old man voice.

They all shared a laugh, Dipper included, the mirth of his friends too infectious to deny. The camaraderie calmed the roiling waters within, and the tension that had plagued him for days loosened, the stress in his shoulders leaving like a gust of wind.

“Like, sure, you made a mistake. But you’re not the only one.” Soos frowned sullenly. "I-I was maybe too rough when I thought I was defending you kids from Mr. Pines. I didn’t _know_ he was badly hurt… I might’ve made things worse…“

"And if I would’ve pressed the button sooner, maybe it wouldn’t have taken us so long to notice he was hurt,” admitted Mabel, hugging her knees to her chest.

“Maybe if I had stuck around instead of leaving when I saw agents swarming the place, I could’ve helped somehow,” Wendy murmured.  

Dipper looked up at that, eyes steely with conviction. “You can’t take blame for that. There’s no way you could have predicted–”

 _“Exactly,”_ she said succinctly, smiling at him. “Yeah, okay, you should’ve thought things through before you brought the government down on our heads _but._ Thinking of what you could have done different will only drive you crazy and won’t solve anything.”

Slowly, Dipper nodded, finding that she had a point...and if everyone else was willing to forgive his mistake, maybe he could begin to forgive himself, too.

“And don’t forget that some of this is on _Stan_. He definitely knew the extent of his injuries, yet he chose not to go to the hospital or get help,” Wendy reminded.

“True,” he mumbled. “I understand _why,_ though. He wanted to save his brother. Finally see him again after thirty years.”

Mabel hummed contemplatively. “Grunkle Stan really doesn’t care much about himself when other’s are at stake, like with the zombies and the agents and the portal,” she observed, sounding years beyond her age even though her voice retained the same light, dreamy quality as always.

Dipper didn’t precisely know why the statement made him slightly uncomfortable, except for perhaps the implications it held. He did not have time to linger on these feelings long, however, as Mabel turned to him and quietly asked, “What do you think happened between him and his brother, anyway?”

Having only a few half-formed ideas and reserving judgment for when Stan awoke, Dipper shrugged. “I’m sure it can’t be as bad as it seems,” he offered unconvincingly, watching as Mabel glanced away; and for once, he couldn’t tell what was going through her head.

“Dudes, I wouldn’t worry too much,” said Soos brightly, attempting to lighten the mood. "As long as Stan’s backstory more or less aligns with my fanfiction, we should be _fine.“_

Wanting that to be true, Dipper let his worries drift away as he munched on snacks with his sister and Wendy as Soos began a dramatic reading of his fanfiction.

_"Chapter 1: A Man Named Stan…”_

* * *

Time meant nothing, wherever he was. One moment he was nowhere, floating in an ocean of dark with no land in sight, and the next he was in a small Colombian town after a death-defying escape from prison, fidgeting as his former cellmate caught up with an old associate.

And discussed what was to be done with _Stan_.

_He didn’t know if they knew he could understand most of what they were saying, having picked up the language during his incarceration, and did not bother informing them. To survive, Stan had learned to be what others wanted him to be, and right now they wanted a dumb American boy way in over his head – which, to be honest, wasn’t that far from the truth._

_Fresh from prison, still wanted for smuggling, and without a peso to his name, Stan was trapped. He needed to get back to the states, and presently, Rico was his only chance of doing so. He had hoped against hope that the man might feel indebted after Stan nearly lost his neck helping him escape, but apparently, men who headed drug cartels were not overly sentimental._

_“American boy alright,” snorted Rico’s associate, appraising Stan like a pawnbroker would a gilded set of jewels. “They won’t question him much. As long as he doesn’t sweat so much like he is now.”_

_“He’ll be fine,” said Rico, suddenly leaning in so close that Stan could count the each stitch of the scar on his cheek. He wondered how many people had been close enough to do the same and had lived to tell about it. “You’re a good liar, aren'tcha, boy?”_

_Stan nodded hastily, inciting a dry chuckle from his former cellmate, who had always delighted in his thinly veiled terror._

_“Good," Rico hummed in satisfaction. "Because you’re gonna have to_ earn _your ticket home.”_

_Days later, after being put up in some crummy motel, Stan was carted to an unremarkable building on the city’s main street, not nearly as glamorous or secretive as he would’ve imagined (nothing was ever like it was in the movies)._

_Led to an apartment above a florist shop, where one of Rico’s underlings poured ounces of cocaine that was white like snow into bags, before using a machine to press and pack it. Stan sat and watched the slow, meticulous process with a spool of metal dread curling through his gut._

_A doctor entered the room. Gave him a pill to slow digestion before spraying his throat with something that was supposed to numb it and tasted like shit. A bowl was placed on the table, a heaping pile of pellets that were not nearly as small as he’d hoped. The size and shape reminded him of bullets._

_The comparison made him laugh at the irony of it all. After spending a good chunk of his life dodging gunfire, now Stan was willingly shoving the bullets down his own throat, where they could shoot him from the inside out. It wasn’t “haha funny” so much as “I’m in deep shit” funny._

_Coating a pellet in the sweet, soupy liquid, the doctor handed him the ammo. He couldn’t get it down on the first try, shoved his fingers too far in, and choked._

_“Relax,” suggested the doctor, dispassionately. “If you cannot do this, we will stop this instant.”_

_“No, I_ can,” _said Stan desperately. Knowing it was his only way home, there was no other option._

_“Prove it,” ordered the doctor, and so with an exhale, Stan tried again. Without the soupy covering it was like swallowing a water balloon, but he tilted his neck and gulped continuously, the packet sliding down his esophagus like a dead slug._

_Stan winced but did not heave. The doctor nodded before handing him another._

_The rest went down easier. Once he had finished the bowl, there was another waiting, and Stan let out a groan, wanting to cry. The doctor said he could lay for a little, and put pressure on his abdomen, checking to see that everything was where it was supposed to be. It was odd, feeling so uncomfortably filled without having eaten. Foreign, even._

_He had spent more half-starved nights than he could count longing for a full stomach. Now Stan felt full in a way that made him yearn for the emptiness of hunger._

_“They seem to have settled into place. But be warned,” the doctor cautioned. “One wrong move and they rupture inside of you.”_

_“What would that mean for me?” asked Stan before he could help himself._

_“You won’t have to worry about dying,” assured the doctor, and Stan sighed with relief. “They’ll slice you open and rip the stuff out of you before that happens.”_

_This remark ripped the rug right out from underneath him, and at Stan’s stricken expression, the doctor snorted cynically._

_“You are carrying a fortune’s worth of cocaine in your gullet. Don’t for a second think your life’s worth anywhere near that amount.”_

_This advice stayed with him through the drive the next day, and then the flight, and the arrival at the Phoenix airport. Stan was doing well, for the most part, and the airport people had bought his story about being a salesman in Colombia for the profitable coffee bean trade._

_Once he got past security he figured his nerves would calm, sweat would stop running down his neck, and the tightness of his stomach would dissipate. But if anything, the sensation grew more intense by the minute, and by the time they were at the car waiting outside the airport, Stan had to suppress his moans as the discomfort escalated into full-blown agony._

_“What’s wrong?” Rico demanded, and Stan cursed, wishing his employer hadn't noticed. “You sick, boy?”_

_“No!” Stan assured, but he felt hot everywhere, and his voice quivered with nervousness and pain._

_“Don’t lie to me,” Rico seethed. Grabbing him by the throat, he tugged Stan forward, eliciting a sharp cry as his hands tore relentlessly at his abdomen, prodding at skin through fabric._

_“He’s ruptured,” muttered Rico, eyes roving over his flushed face. “Shit.”_

_“I_ – _Rico,_ please,” _Stan gasped. “I helped you! You wouldn’t have escaped without me!”_

_Sighing deeply, Rico brought a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, the tension in his shoulders calmed, making Stan feel safe. But then, with an air of absolute apathy, he motioned to his driver and associate._

_“I’ll be in the car.” And he turned away, prounding the last nail into Stan's coffin._

_“No, por favor!” he begged, near hysterics. “Por favor, no, I’m no-not_ – _”_

_His pleading fell on deaf ears as they dragged him to a secluded spot behind the building, clamping a hand over his mouth to quiet his ragged shouts. The driver removed a knife from his pocket, the metal glinting in the midday sun, and lifted away his shirt and red coat as Stan struggled._

_Eye clenched shut, he keened as the tip of the blade bit into his flesh, ripping open the pain already throbbing inside, and it hurt to the point it burned, and there seemed to be no end, sweet Moses let it end_ –

This wasn’t how it went, _screamed his mind, crying out like a distant memory._ I survive this. This _can’t_ be real!

 _But the pain certainly_ was, _so what did that say?_

“Stan?”

 _Not daring to look, to witness his guts spill out as the knife speared him, Stan caught his name being called, yet in his daze of agony, it was hard to tell if the person was far or near. He recognized it, though, it was someone lost_ – _like him – Someone–_

“…can you hear me?” _the same voice pressed, and the more Stan focused, the louder it became._  "Stanley!“

Without hesitation, Stan latched onto the voice, clinging to the sound like a lifeboat. And slowly, the whirlwind of Spanish and pain and knives faded to black, and he was floating again, only the voice was still there, and Stan was still holding on. It pulled him towards a light, dragging him to the surface, and he wasn’t sure where exactly he would be when he opened his eyes, but he was certain it had to be better than where he had been _before._

Hovering above him, a faceless collection of colors and blurs slowly formed into features, the features of  _his brother._  And like a wave breaking upon shore, the rest of the details came spilling into place; coming to Gravity Falls, losing his brother, three decades spent pretending, a summer of laughter and hope, caught and arrested, the escape, the _shot,_ bringing Ford home and then–

Blackness, with patches of spotty light, memories of Mabel’s chatter and glimpses of his _Dad_ that were so distorted and out-of-place that he didn’t think he could trust them. Even now, as the features of room sharpened, the reality before him seemed too surreal to be true.

 _"Ford?”_ he gasped, squinting at the face of his twin, almost too terrified to speak and break whatever dream this was. "Is that you?“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In one of my classes last semester, we watched a scene from a movie called Maria Full of Grace. It showed this poor Spanish girl trying to find a better life, agreeing to swallow bowls of cocaine pellets (which was a cringe-worthy process, must say, don’t know if my description did it justice) and be a drug mule for money. Awful stuff, but ultimately gave me an idea for Stan’s backstory during this time so *jazz hands* there you go!
> 
> And feel free to mock me, but the 2003 Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles series is one of the best cartoons ever, and I’m proud to reference it. Dipper and Mabel, 1999 babies they are, would have enjoyed the show as much as I did.


	6. Let This Drift Away

_“Ford?”_ Stan rasped upon awakening. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” confirmed Ford, smiling down at him. “Good to hear you coherent again.”

“G-Good for…” Stan coughed as he tried to talk, finding that his throat was dry as the desert, and cracked from disuse. “… _who?”_

“I’ll get you some water,” said Ford, and disappeared from view for a split second before returning with a glass in one hand and used the other to usher Stan upright.

Stan would have complained at the manhandling if his muscles were not so stiff and sore; and the minute the cool liquid hit his tongue all protests flew straight out the window, and he eagerly gulped down every ounce.

Once finished, Stan attempted to shift into a sitting position, yet Ford ended up doing most of the work and moving. Like a feral alley cat unaccustomed to such care, Stanley grunted and bristled at the attention.

“Geez, s'not like I _died_ or something," Stan mumbled, batting the hands away. Ford glared at him, severely, and then it dawned on him. ”…Oh, wait.“

He expected a rebuke on what poor taste he had in jokes, but instead, what he got was…Ford chuckling, the unbidden guff of amusement echoing eerily off his eardrum.

_Oh, no. I finally cracked that big ole head of his. Wonderful!_

"You didn’t die, no, but you caught a serious infection. You’ve been unconscious for the past few days…”

Stan remained quiet while his brother blathered on about his prognosis, not terribly concerned with the fact that he’d been shot and gotten sick (as if that had never happened before).

Ford was acting…unaccountably tender towards him. A far cry from the greeting he’d gotten the last two times they had been reunited. Was it any wonder, then, that as the memories slowly trickled past the hazy remnants of his coma-like state, Stan felt suspicion well inside?

After all, shouldn’t he be ecstatic at this change in attitude, ready to accept the gesture for what it was? Maybe. Or maybe thirty years of self-imposed loneliness, with nothing but guilt and resentment to keep him company, had left his heart a little harder. A little less willing to trust.

“So that’s it?” he heard himself say, an almost out-of-body experience, once Stanford finished his spiel.

His brother merely stared at him. “What else am I supposed to say?”

“Were you even happy to see me, after thirty years apart?”

The sudden, bitter question left Ford bewildered; it was written all over the nerd’s face. Perhaps it appeared to have been spouted apropos to nothing, but for Stan, it had been a long-time coming.

“‘Cause we parted on such good terms?” Ford retorted, both skeptical and sarcastic. _Good point, Sixer, but that wasn’t an answer_.

Not nearly an answer, and Stan was so tired of this back and forth. All he wanted was to know one way or another.

“Did you miss me at all?” he demanded, voice rising before becoming softer, subdued. “Ever, even _once?”_

Ford failed to respond, reacting only with the painful sound of silence, and there, _that_ was his answer. Plain as day. Stan felt his heart sink to the pit of his stomach as his anger rose like smoke filling his chest.

“No. Right,” he sneered. “You only call me when you need to me do something for you. Then it’s wham, bam, _goodbye._ Don’t let the door hit ya on the way out!”

Stanford scowled. “That’s a rich assumption of the person who’s been nursing to you back to health after you heedlessly–”

 _“Wow,_ you didn’t leave me bleeding on the ground! Hate to be such an inconvenience, as _always,”_ Stan spat.

“Maybe if you would actually listen to what I’m saying and stop putting words in my mouth!” Stanford seethed, rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration. “So what, now I don’t care? Is that what you’re implying?”

“You certainly never cared before!” Stanley shot back.

“Since _when?”_ Stanford blustered, clearly offended.

“What, did you think I was living the lap of luxury after Pop gave me the boot?” Stan cried, shouting despite the hoarse echo of his tone. “Yeah, being a homeless teenager doesn’t attract all kinds of trouble, like muggers and crooks or _worse–”_

His injured side gave a twinge, irritated by his vehemence. Just as well, Stan hadn’t planned on going into more detail, anyway; that was a dark, winding road he did not wish to relive.

“Nah, don’t worry about me, I’m _fine.”_ He chuckled mirthlessly. "Don’t thank me or nothing, not like I haven’t always come running when you called. Didn’t spend three decades learning physics or code-breaking, and _oh,_ might’ve had you out a whole lot _sooner_ had you not hid your goddamn journals so well, thanks for that by the way. See how simple that was? _Thank you,_ Stanford.“

Stanford’s hands were clenched into trembling fists, and his shoulders were hunched in a way they were when he was _really ticked off,_ so boy, Sixer must be _steaming._ He took a perverse sort of pleasure in eliciting such a display.

Dramatics must be genetic, as Stanford stood abruptly, to rummage around at his desk. Stanley watched absentmindedly, his panting breaths evening out, the fires of rage doused soon after igniting. Now he just felt tired, empty and achy, and in no mood to hear the counterargument Ford was most likely preparing.

 _I’m gonna grab a calculator to prove how mathematically wrong you are, Stanley._ His brain’s Ford impression was spot-on. Probably from so many years of talking to himself, pretending the reflection was his brother-

Ford dropped an object onto his lap, with flourish. It was- Some kind of funky snowglobe? Nothing the Mystery Shack had in stock.

 _"This,”_ said Ford tightly, as if reading his brother’s thoughts, “Is the Rift.”

Stan blinked. “The wha–?”

“When you reactivated the portal, it was so unstable that an interdimensional rift formed, forcing me to contain it within this case,” Ford elaborated, a cruel twist to his mouth. “And should this glass break, a fissure will be torn into the fabric of our universe, wreaking untold havoc and destruction upon our world. So yes, _thank you,_ Stanley. _Thank you_ for doing exactly what my warnings told you not to.”

An air of condescension punctuated his speech, making it clear that if Stan required an explanation so he could understand just how monumentally he’d fucked up, Ford was more than willing to rant on.

But there was no need. Stan understood perfectly. He was stupid, sure, but never to the degree that everyone assumed. Smart enough to know that bringing the portal back to life was dangerous, even if he hadn’t been fully aware of the extent of what damage the machine could cause; and alright, he _had_ known there were risks involved, and had recklessly ignored them by his own admission.

To have his deficiency so vividly laid out before him, though, to see his inadequacy thrown in his face, it was like…the familiar sensation of his stomach knots tightening, left palm reflexively grasping his abdomen, as the other curled into the quilt…

It was like being a boy again, staring at his shoes, his gut curdling like spoiled milk as Filbrick lectured him on his grades, his detentions, his unattainable dreams, just _everything,_ because _nothing_ would ever be good enough, no matter how hard he tried.

He could feel himself shrinking under Ford’s gaze as he used to with Dad, and he avoided those same critical eyes, staring instead at the Rift, the formless shifting of its shape and multiple, mingling colors. Such a beautiful little disaster, the efforts of all his work.

That’s when the dark little voice in the back of head, his constant companion for as long as he could remember, reared its ugly head again.

_Figures. Good job, Stan. You ruin your brother’s life, you ruin your own life - hey, ruining the world was just the next obvious step._

A gurgle of laughter sprung from his throat, the same self-deprecating tune as before. He did not even bother trying to refrain, knowing it was useless.

Wetness gathered at the corner of his eyes, but he couldn’t quell the wave of emotion rising like the undertow, and was frankly too exhausted to care if he appeared weak. Not like he could get any lower in his brother’s opinion at this point. And it _was_ funny, for as much as he’d been struggling to escape his nightmarish memories mere minutes ago, right now Stan would give anything to go back to where mistakes and bullet holes were just _that,_ bad memories.

He wished, at that moment, that he had never woken up at all.

* * *

There were actions you regretted with time, hours or days or years after committing them, and then there were actions you regretted almost immediately after.

Revealing the Rift fell directly into the latter category.

Ford silently cursed his impudence, as well as his brother, who had torn a hole through his composure in the first place. He usually never acted so irrationally, but Stanley had the uncanny ability to push all the right buttons in order to get Ford riled up.

He glanced at his twin, pondering if it wasn’t too late to impart onto Stan the importance of the Rift’s secrecy. When he saw his brother curled in on himself, Ford frowned, wondering if the medication had worn off. Was the pain starting to bleed through the haze of drugs? Just as he was about to ask, a soft noise caught his attention.

It was not a sign of distress,  _per se_  – Stanley was laughing, that same ill-suited laughter from before, and like before, Stanford cringed at the hollow sound.

“Stan?” he pressed worriedly.

“Heh, it’s nothing,” Stan croaked unconvincingly. “J-Just…”

Quivering shoulders shifted forward, curling inwards as far as bones would allow. Drops landed on hands that were dug into quilt, and Ford couldn’t see his eyes but nor did he need to, the realization hitting him like an avalanche.

His brother was _crying._

“For the first time in my life, I thought I…that I’d finally done something right,” Stan mumbled dismally. “Getting the portal to work again, saving you, achieving something _worthwhile._ The one single thing I could actually be proud of, you know?”

He sniffled, a huff of broken laughter escaping.

“But I… Even when I try to do something right for once, something _good,_ I always end up being wrong. Somehow, I always find a way to screw up.” He snorted darkly. “S'my only talent, really.”

Ford opened and close his mouth several times, at an utter loss. He had never been so helpless as he was watching his brother weep wretchedly, without a goddamn clue as to how to comfort him.

_Nice work, genius. You’re so superior, so very righteous. Stanford Pines, the man who made his brother cry._

Only now did he see his error. How could he have thought, in Stan’s tenuous state of health, that throwing this grave piece of information at him would possibly make things better?

As he damned his ill-timed vindictiveness, he heard Stanley’s practically inaudible murmur, _“Should’ve just let the fever burn me out,”_ and his stomach jolted nauseously, spurring him to action.

“Stanley, _stop,”_ Ford pleaded, clasping his brother’s arms and squeezing. "Please stop, I didn’t…didn’t mean…“

No, but that wasn’t true, was it? He _had_ meant what he said. None of that was going to console his brother, however, or make the tears end; and, growing more uncomfortable by the second, Ford wracked his brain for a way to make his sibling’s shoulders cease their quaking.

"I shouldn’t have phrased it like that!" he blurted out, desperately.  "It isn’t _entirely_ your fault. I’m…I'm to blame as well.”

Confession taking them both by surprise, Stan’s eyes flickered to him, disbelievingly. Ford swallowed, daring to take the plunge, because now that he had his brother’s attention there was no choice but to trudge on. No going back.

“I built the portal,” Stanford conceded slowly. “…Yet failed to dismantle it when I had the chance. And I-I admit, I let my hubris get the better of me when I stopped you from destroying the journal.”

He sighed, the hindsight of the situation making his younger self’s actions seem all the more impractical and absurd.

“If I truly wanted the portal to never be reactivated, why wouldn’t I have let you burn the damn thing then and there?” he scoffed. “Then I didn’t even realize the danger during our fight, when any…either one of us could have gotten sucked into the portal.”

Having been the one to actually meet this fate, the hypothetical alternative was not something he had contemplated often, or _at all,_ being too wrapped up in his misgivings and resentment. Nevertheless, it was entirely possible that Stan might have been in his position; and who might be in whose shoes right now, if that were the case?

Stan gnawed his lower lip as he listened, keeping it from quivering. That didn’t stop a few stray tears from rolling down his cheeks, and he appeared too weary to even wipe them away.

“I thought I’d killed you,” Stan whispered suddenly, striking Ford by the cheer amount of guilt and grief one simple statement could embody.

“What, I thought you said you were never any good at anything?” he offered playfully, attempting to lighten the mood.

Obviously a gross misstep, when the remark made Stan’s whole body seize, and his face splinter with pure misery.

“Kidding!” Ford backpedaled.  _“Kidding_ , I swear! I-I’m…”

_I’m not very good at this, am I?_

“I’m not that easy to kill,” Ford stated eventually. Stan’s face still belied absolute heartache, so Ford let his brotherly instincts guide him, laying his palm against his brother’s cheek and forcing him to meet his honest stare. “And look, I’m here now. That _is_ thanks to you.”

Progress was finally attained, then, as his twin’s expression softened somewhat and he relaxed against the affection touch.

Until Stan’s eyes shifted away once more. “I’m a terrible person,” he declared under his breath.

Ford huffed. _So much for progress._

“You are not–”

“Even if I’d known…exactly what reactivating the portal would do…I would’ve still went ahead anyway.” Stan’s gaze held his with watery defiance. “You’re my brother. I had to bring you back no matter what.”

And with a sudden bright, burst of clarity, Ford understood. No matter how many warnings he’d left, or how many grudges Stan had against him, of course his brother would fight tooth and nail to bring him back anyway. Stan had a tough outer exterior, yet underneath all the protective sheen, a heart that was reckless and kind.

It was that same heart that drove him to pickpocket Dad when he forget his Ma’s anniversary and use the quarter to call her hotline as a client with an obnoxiously long name simply to make her laugh. To sneak a few extra tokens into Shermie’s care package so he could have stuff like chewing gum and comics while he was on the front line. To make up a 'high-six’ because _“If high fives are cool, then a high six is all the better, 'cause math says six is better than five, right nerd?”_

Little gestures that didn’t seem like much, but when put together, said a lot about Stan’s character. He must have forgotten this part of his brother, somewhere along the line.

“I know, knucklehead,” sighed Ford, patting the back of Stan’s head. “That’s just the way you are.”

With what waning energy he had, Stan shrugged. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Stop apologizing,” Stanford snapped. Instantly, his brother tensed, and he regretted the waspish tone as soon as it’d touched his lips.

“No, no, that wasn’t your fault,” he hastened to assure, exhaling. “I’m simply _tired,_ is all. And you…apologized incessantly while you were unconscious.”

“Oh,” Stan mumbled, fidgeting uncomfortably. Apparently, he had some idea of what matters he might be referring to. “Did I…what else did I say?”

“Nothing that bears repeating,” said Ford gently. Stan looked utterly relieved, shoulders sagging. There was no reason attempt to pry any of that information out of him. Not right now, anyway.

“So I’ve been out of it for days,” Stan commented, more of a question as his red-rimmed eyes swept over his brother’s face. “Meanwhile, _you_ could carry groceries in the bags under your eyes.”

Ford rolled his eyes at his brother’s humor, same as it ever was – _terrible_. “Well, what do you expect, when I’ve been tending to your fever this whole time?”

“You have?” asked Stan, sounding genuinely surprised.

Ford frowned, baffled by this response – and a tad indignant, too.

“What do you think of me, Stan? That I would leave you to the throes of illness?”

Stan’s lips pursed, and from there, it could have so easily descended into another argument between them; but then, with good grace, his brother shrugged.

“Nah, you’re not _that_ much of an ass.”

Relieved that they were not about to start yelling, Ford carefully took the Rift and returned it to the cupboard. Dropping back into the chair, he smiled wearily at his brother, and then another inquiry entered his mind.

“How much do you remember after…?” He wondered if Stan recalled the agent who had shot him, name or face – _unlikely,_ as the entry wound was on his back, meaning that he was attacked while _fleeing_ , such a cowardly move, and if that wasn’t enough to get Ford’s blood boiling–

“After getting shot, you mean?” Tactless, Stan squinted while he searched his memory. “The portal went berserk…the freakin’ planet _tilted_ …and then…then you socked me.”

Prodding his cheek, Stan grimaced. Ford hadn’t even noticed the bruise wrought by his own knuckles, too preoccupied with Stan’s other, more grievous injuries. Contrarily, Stan didn’t seem too bothered about those, yet lingered upon the mark that marred his cheek.

“Everything started to sway. I was on the ground…an’ I heard the kids…” With a gasp, Stan shot up like a slingshot, eyes blaring like an alarm bell. _“Kids!”_

Immediately, this proved to be a terrible idea, as the movement stretch skin that was still tender and healing, eliciting a bark of pain from Stan, and in turn, nearly shattering the chair as Ford stumbled in his haste to assist.

 _“Sonuva_ – _”_

“If you try to move again, I will hurt you,” Ford warned, pushing a wincing Stan back into a horizontal position. Never mind how counterproductive the threat was – if Stan could not be trusted to be a sensible convalescent, he lost his sitting privileges.

“The children are fine,” Ford assured in a kinder tone. “And will be overjoyed to know you’re awake.”

Groaning at the new position, his brother laid back, blinking at the ceiling.

“They…They’re not too mad? About me lying an’ all?” There was real fear in his voice, proof of how much Dipper and Mabel’s regard meant to Stan.

“Too worried to be cross with you, I think,” said Ford thoughtfully, before adding, very stern, “Once you’re feeling better, though, prepare to be bombarded with a lot of questions. Most of which will be coming from _me.”_

“Can’t wait,” Stan grumbled. His voice took on a wistful quality as he said, “They’re really great, ain’t they?”

Realizing that he was referring to the children, there was now no mistaking that as much as the younger twins cared about their uncle, Stan adored them wholeheartedly in turn.

The corner of his lips curved fondly. “I haven’t been able to spend much time with them, but from what I’ve seen, yes,” Ford affirmed. “Remarkable children. Who are very much attached to you.”

“Eh, it’s probably 'cause I let them have the run of the house, mostly,” said Stan cheerily, smiling to himself. “…what time is it? D'ya think I could see 'em?”

Given that it was only about 10pm, the kids were most likely awake (did children in this dimension have a bedtime? should he have imposed one?). Moreover, it was _Stan’s_ eyes that were barely managing to stay open at this point.

Furthermore, Stanford had not been joking when he said that Dipper and Mabel would be overjoyed - he could only imagine their exuberance, and how exhausting that would be. As _de facto_ doctor, Ford could not in good conscience approve of his patient being taxed so quickly after showing signs of promising recovery.

“Something tells me you won’t get the chance,” Ford remarked, checking his brother’s temperature with the back of his hand. “Your fever has only just begun to lower. Rest awhile longer.”

“Kinda afraid to fall asleep,” snorted Stan, with a levity that masked a deeper lurking fear. “Like, I’ll wake up, and you’ll still be _there,_ the kids’ll be gone, and it’s just me, alone in the house. S'happened before.”

“You’re not quite _that_ delirious anymore,” Ford replied.

“That’s exactly what a dream would say,” Stan muttered belligerently. “Who knows? You might not even be real now.”

 _“Stanley,”_ Ford groaned.

“Prove it,” Stan demanded, stubborn like a child.

Annoyed by his behavior, Ford scanned the room for a piece of convincing proof, and finally finding some, reached down and grabbed the corner of his coat, which was still bunched beneath his brother.

“There,” he declared, very put-upon, as he tucked the coat around his brother’s shoulders. “That enough evidence for you?”

“Mhm,” Stan hummed, apparently satisfied. He had this small, goofy smile on his face as he rubbed the dark fabric of the coat between his fingers. “Yours, alright. I’d never wear anything this sci-fi and tacky.”

“I’ve seen your wardrobe, Stan. Tacky does not even _begin_ to cover it.”

At that, Stan laughed quietly. This time it was genuine, unabashed laughter, not the sick parody that had accompanied his sobs earlier.

“I missed you, Sixer,” he murmured, somewhere in that drowsy state of content that made all confessions that much more earnest. “Even if you didn’t miss me.”

The last bit tugged at his chest, threatening to make his own emotions – guilt and remorse and something akin to grief yet countered by relief – pour forth.

“I _did_ miss you, Stan,” Ford corrected, ensuring that this time Stan was awake to hear, if only barely. “…I just didn’t realize until now. Not until I almost lost you for good.”

Even half-asleep, Stan seemed awed by this admission, but his eyes fell shut before he could speak. Eventually, the last bit of tension slipping from his muscles as slumber claimed him. Ford watched and wondered if he shouldn’t follow suit.

Things were hardly perfect between them. There was still plenty to be addressed, least of which were the matters pertaining his and Stan’s identities, what was to be done with the Rift, the cause behind his brother’s disturbing night terrors…

…but of course, even being a perfectionist at his core, Ford couldn’t deny that this was a start. A start towards reconciling a relationship he was more willing to work towards now than ever before. Certainly that meant they had earned a reprieve from the problems that loomed overhead?

Certainly a bit of sleep wouldn’t hurt.


End file.
